


Reason Is Blind And Impotent

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Seen Trilogy [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst





	Reason Is Blind And Impotent

Fever relapses rarely last longer than a few days, and thus it was with no great surprise but rather with a great deal of relief that Watson woke up on the fourth morning feeling much better, if you discounted the fatigue that was still clinging to his bones. Holmes was, for the first time since Watson had fallen ill, nowhere to be seen, and Watson presumed that he'd noted the change in Watson's condition during the night and gone for a well-earned rest in his own bed.

Watson lay still for several long minutes, enjoying the feeling of a return to health, before pulling himself out of bed and into a dressing gown. He made his careful way downstairs to the living room where he found Mrs Hudson setting out breakfast for one. 

She exclaimed with pleasure to see him up. “Oh, Doctor, it is good to see you well again. Should I set a place for you, and bring up some extra toast?”

Watson looked at the breakfast table and suddenly realised how hungry he was. “Yes please, Mrs Hudson,” he said. “That would be very good of you.”

It wasn’t until Watson was well into his second piece of toast that Holmes emerged from his bedroom. When he saw Watson was already seated at the table, he paused for a moment in his doorway before coming forward and sitting opposite him.

“Feeling better, old fellow?” he asked, looking Watson over with a look that didn't miss anything.

“Much, thank you,” said Watson, regarding Holmes in return, noting the signs of several sleepless nights beneath his eyes. “I must thank you for your care over the last few days, it was...”

“Don't mention it,” interrupted Holmes hurriedly. “It's really of no import.”

“It is to me,” said Watson firmly. “I will not forget it, Holmes.”

Holmes waved that away with a careless hand. “Don't get sentimental on me, Doctor, you know I can't abide that over breakfast.”

Watson gave up and turned back to his toast. He would just have to make sure that his appreciation was clear in other, more subtle ways.

Holmes poured himself a cup of tea but he didn't drink it. Instead he merely sat with it, eyes still fixed on Watson as if he was evaluating him. Watson allowed it for several minutes, then began to feel uncomfortable.

“Whatever is it?” he asked eventually.

Holmes shook his head and looked away. “Nothing,” he said shortly, but Watson was only able to continue his breakfast in peace for another minute or two before he spoke again. “I wonder, sometimes, if there are still mysteries lurking under your respectable exterior that I have yet to detect.”

Watson felt his eyebrows raise. “What on earth could make you wonder that?” he responded. “One would think that a penchant for following lunatic detectives into all kinds of dangerous and occasionally improbable situations would be enough to lurk beneath any exterior, respectable or otherwise.”

Holmes shook his head. “That's no mystery,” he said dismissively. “What man with even the slightest touch of adventure in his blood wouldn't do that, given half a chance? No, I'm thinking of deeper, more personal secrets.”

Watson frowned. “Like what?” he asked.

Holmes let out an exasperated sigh. “If I knew that, they wouldn't be secrets.”

“Holmes,” said Watson tiredly. “I'm not feeling well enough yet for one of your riddling conversations. Is there any point to all this?”

Holmes clenched his jaw. “Apparently not,” he said in an irritated voice.

Watson gave up on the whole thing. He swallowed his last bite of toast and stood up. “In that case,” he said, “I think I shall take a much-needed bath.”

****

There are few things in life that feel as good as sinking into a warm bath after spending several days bed-ridden and feverish. Watson relaxed back and luxuriated in the feeling of being properly clean for several long minutes before the door opened and Holmes sauntered in as if there was nothing extraordinary about disturbing another man whilst he was bathing.

“Holmes!” exclaimed Watson, half sitting up and splashing water on to the floor. “What on earth are you doing?”

Holmes waved a negligent hand. “Calm yourself, Watson, your health is still recovering.” He settled back against the wall, his long legs stretching out before him. “I merely came to see if you are doing as well as the amount of food you managed to put away at breakfast implies.”

Watson sighed. Of course Holmes would have no concept of personal privacy – he probably thought it was illogical, or some such nonsense. “I am fine,” he said. “I shall spend today and tomorrow quietly, then I should be well enough to resume my practice.”

“Capital,” said Holmes, but he didn't move to leave as Watson had hoped he would once his question was answered. He stayed where he was in silence for a few minutes, and Watson resolutely did not say anything else to him, hoping that he would get bored and wander off again.

“When your fever was at its worst,” said Holmes, breaking the silence, “you rather lost track of what you were saying, I think – you said aloud some things that I suspect you were only thinking.”

Watson felt embarrassment wash over him. “Oh, lord,” he said. “I'm so sorry Holmes – fever befuddles the mind horribly, as I'm sure you're aware. Whilst I was in India, I firmly believed that a pair of monstrously-sized Afghan natives were holding me captive, when in fact I was safe in the military hospital. I lashed out both verbally and physically at the staff there, and had to be restrained.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Afghan natives? Really?”

“Anything I said or did was not at all meant for you,” Watson continued. “I would count it a great personal favour if you would forget it entirely.”

Holmes nodded slowly. “Forget it,” he mused. “I would not want to cause you any distress, Watson, I merely wanted to know if there was any truth behind the things you said.” He paused and then added offhandedly, “Quite a few of them were directed towards me specifically.”

Watson was not fooled by the seeming casualness of the final sentence – it was clear that this was what Holmes had been most dwelling on. He groaned and put his hand to his face, hiding his eyes. He must have taken it into his head that Holmes was somehow responsible for his condition and berated him, or worse. 

“I can never apologise enough,” he said miserably. “And I can assure you that nothing I said to you was in any way true. You know I hold you in great esteem, Holmes. Please ignore the ramblings of a sick man.”

“Great esteem,” repeated Holmes quietly, regarding Watson with a curious look. “Are you sure that is how you regard me?”

“Of course,” said Watson firmly. “Even moreso now, if that is possible, after your great care of me these last few days. I am sorry if all I repaid you with was insults.”

Holmes barked out a humourless laugh at that, then nodded his head, straightening up. “Don't worry, my dear Watson,” he said, “there is little you could say to me that could affect me and, as you said, you were not in your right mind. I shall leave you to bathe in peace.”

“I am terribly sorry,” said Watson again as Holmes turned to leave.

Holmes shook it away. “It's already forgotten,” he said, and left the room.

****

Holmes retreated to his room, taking his pipe with him, and settled in for a long rumination on the subject of Watson and what his hidden desires might or might not be. It had seemed so simple while Watson had been ill and letting slip a myriad of suggestive comments, so obvious that he desired Holmes and had been hiding it from him. However, Holmes had not taken the time to plan exactly how they would step from being merely the closest of friends and companions to being so much more, too taken up with anticipation of the step directly after that, the moment when they would retire to a room with a locked door and finally indulge in their mutual desires. He had not even stopped to consider why this information was news to him.

How Watson had managed to hide such a large secret from Holmes, who was invariably able to discern almost everything about his mood and activities was all too clear now. He had no idea himself. Either he was correct when he said there was no truth in anything his fevered mind had come out with, or he had hidden his desires so completely that even his conscious mind was unaware of them. 

Holmes thought back carefully over the morning's interaction, over every look in Watson's eyes, every twitch of his fingers, attempting to divine the emotion that lay at the base of them; friendship, or something more? A miscalculation could cost him everything. His eyes sank shut, and he saw, as if it was right before him, the appraising look that Watson had given him when he'd first sat down at the breakfast table, his eyes lingering on his half-open collar as well as the weariness on his face; the way his gaze had traced along Holmes's legs like a caress in the bathroom; the particularly heart-felt note in his voice when he'd said _I hold you in great esteem, Holmes._

Then his mind travelled back to before Watson's bout of fever, replaying the tenderness in Watson's hands as he'd administered to Holmes's wounds; every casual touch of his fingers; even the position he tended to take when they were in a carriage, seated opposite Holmes and leaning forward, towards him, their knees so close that they brushed. No, there was no doubt, Holmes was certain of it now. Watson might not be consciously aware of it, but his feelings for Holmes encompassed more than friendship.

Holmes sucked on his pipe and wondered what his next course of action should be. He instantly dismissed the idea of following Watson's entreaty to forget the whole thing. After all, Watson was not in possession of all the facts. On the other hand, a bold declaration, or even a more subtle seduction, would likely just lead to Watson fleeing in horror, his shield of respectability too thick for him to connect Holmes's actions with what was buried deep within himself. No, if there was to be any forward movement, it would have to be initiated by Watson himself – or, at least come after Watson had admitted to himself what Holmes, and his own subconscious, already knew.

Holmes paused to refill his pipe. How, then, was he to cause in Watson such an epiphany without scaring him off first, or giving away that he was already in possession of the facts? That would require a careful campaign, utilising everything Watson had given away over the past few days. Holmes relit his pipe and relaxed back in his chair, forming the perfect plan.

****

It started simply enough. Watson spent most of the afternoon on the sofa, half reading some cheap novel, half dozing. Holmes sat himself firmly in his view and then proceeded to do as many activities that focussed on his hands as he could think of, his sleeves half rolled up to exhibit them better. He spent some time fiddling with his pocket watch as if fixing it, although there was nothing wrong with it before he began and, he rather suspected, an awful lot wrong with it afterwards.

He was gratified to feel Watson's eyes on his hands rather more than he'd have suspected, and he wondered how he had missed this fascination before. Perhaps, though, it was the remnants of his illness and his current drowsy state that was lowering his barriers and letting his eyes wander where they wanted as opposed to where society dictated they should be. Holmes suppressed a satisfied smile; such a state could only aid his cause.

After an hour or so, he ran out of things to do to the watch that he hadn't already done twice, and he was beginning to become concerned that Watson would notice that it was merely a ploy. He set the thing aside, making a mental note to take it to the watchmaker's at some time, then pulled out the stack of newspapers he'd been hoarding from the last week or so, letting them pile up whilst he'd been distracted by Watson's illness. Setting them out around him on the floor, he spread open his most recent scrapbook and started slowly flicking through the newspapers, cutting out relevant articles and pasting them into the book.

The activity proved even more engaging for Watson than the watch had been, and eventually his novel fell to his lap. His eyes were half-closed as he tracked the movements of Holmes's hands, watching closely as he carefully licked his fingers to turn newspaper pages, held the paste brush delicately in his fingers, and made sure to press down the articles firmly, with his palm stretched to highlight the long lines of his tendons, starkly defined under his skin.

“Fancy some tea, Doctor?” Holmes asked eventually, once he was sure that the first phase of the plan was a success. It was time to step to the next level.

Watson pulled himself out of his reverie with obvious difficulty, then looked up at Holmes. “Ah, yes, that would be rather pleasant, thank you.”

Holmes gave him a smile, hoping that he didn't look too pleased at the response, and then went down to the kitchen to find Mrs Hudson.

“We must have tea,” he insisted. “With some kind of sustenance. Watson needs feeding up. Something with jam,” he added. Watson was very fond of jam.

Mrs Hudson gave him a slightly suspicious look, which Holmes ignored. “I have some muffins,” she said carefully, and Holmes gave her a bright smile.

“Perfect!” he said. “Bring it up as soon as you can.” He swept out of the kitchen trying to prevent a bounce in his step. This was turning out to be a lot easier than he'd first thought – add in some jam, and Watson would be having a sudden revelation before the day was over.

****


End file.
